The Mantra
by Etimire T
Summary: It is Castiel's job, his purpose, to protect Dean Winchester. Even from himself. Dean does not remember everything he did in Hell, and Castiel is determined to keep it that way. Because if he knew the truth, Dean would never forgive himself. But despite his best efforts, every now and again, memories seep through the cracks, and Castiel has to patch Dean up again.


It had been years since Castiel worried about Dean's sanity. Dean did not remember everything that happened in Hell, and Castiel was determined to keep it that way.

At first, he was terrified he would say something and jog his memory. He tip-toed around his words and watched him more often than Dean knew and probably would have been comfortable with. It was necessary for a time. They both knew (even if Dean didn't remember) Dean would likely go crazy if he remembered. Like Sam nearly did.

But it had been so long now without more than the occasional nightmare, Castiel forgot to worry. In fact, it had been so long since he'd considered that time of their lives, that when Dean called, he had to search through his memories to bring up where he'd heard that particular emotion before.

"Cas," Dean muttered through the phone. And the tone. The tone stopped Castiel short.

"Dean?"

The only response were his breaths.

Castiel's heart thumped in his chest. Something was horribly wrong. He knew it. "Dean, tell me where you are."

"I'm sorry, Cas. I am so-"

"I can't help you if you don't explain what is wrong."

"I don't want you to _help_ me, Cas. I shoulda- I shoulda never called or-"

Cas' grip was so tight on the phone, it was in danger of bending. "Dean-"

"This is impossible, Castiel."

And there it was.

Ill-ease churned in his stomach. Dean didn't say words like _impossible_. Not ever. And he hadn't called him Castiel for years.

Not since they met for the first time.

He still remembered it vividly.

Rescuing the Righteous Man from the pit of Hell was a suicide mission and everyone knew it. Castiel knew it. He was willing. It was his duty.

Even so, he couldn't prepare himself for the thirty years that it took to reach Dean. They'd considered sending Castiel's garrison down with him, but it was decided against because they could not risk losing so many soldiers at once. Not with the coming battles.

So Castiel flew alone. Deep into the pit.

Whoever was in charge, (and at this point, Castiel wasn't even sure who it was), was certainly creative. There were mountain ranges with wind made specifically to chill to the core. There were pits of lava and fire. There were cells and there were torture chambers and there were deserts.

Castiel couldn't describe in human words some of the atrocities he saw as he battled his way down farther and farther into the bit of the monster. No rest. No respite from the fighting. He found himself sometimes imagining just who this man was he was to save. He'd distract himself from his broken wings with thoughts of the good this person was supposed to do. This true vessel.

When he couldn't fly anymore, he ran, and when he couldn't run and the heat caused his skin to shrivel, only to regrow, he walked. He stumbled and stabbed and wandered ever downward.

Until one day he reached the door.

He stood in a long corridor remarkably similar to a human office building. Unfortunately, the carpet was stained periodically with blood and other things Castiel tried not to look at too closely. With an exhale of relief, he pressed on a demon's shoulder to pull his blade out of the creature's chest. It fell on its face at his feet, and Castiel stared at it impassively.

This was it.

He carefully pulled back his bleeding wings, hissing in pain, and folded them gently. The feathers were coming out in bunches, and they wouldn't be useful for flying for ages. He rolled his eyes at himself despite the situation. Vanity was pointless in this situation and especially so when no one could see his pathetic examples of wings anyway.

He blasted open the door, bloody blade raised in defence, and walked in.

Silence. The dark was like a living thing. It curled around him seductively and before Castiel could stop it, the door slammed shut behind him, leaving him in the utter blackness. His Grace curled up tight within him, and he swallowed dryly.

Right then, Castiel realized something about himself he had not known. He was afraid of the darkness. Of the unknowable expanse before him. As a being _made_ of light, the idea of dark was as foreign as air to a fish.

Determined, he set his jaw and took a step forward. "Dean Winchester?" he called softly. That would not work. If anything, it would notify the guards watching him that their was an angel on the way to rescue their plaything. But what else could he do in this infernal darkness?

So it was too his surprize when he heard a soft laugh. Not a laugh. A snicker, really. Something scratched, and suddenly, there was light. A little yellow prick. It was a match, Castiel realized.

He drew near the light instinctively. "Is that you, Winchester?"

"I've been called that," said a male voice behind the match. Castiel drew close enough that he could see the outline of a jaw and the blistered hand that held the match. It burned low until it ran into the fingers and snuffed out.

Why were there no guards? They should be here. Trying to break him.

Unless.

A sudden surge of dread raced through the angel ,and he took half a step back from the man, but he was too slow. A hand shot forward and caught the lapel of his coat, jerking him close enough that Castiel could feel his hot breath. "Huh," he said in a low voice. "You're a weird one. Come to play with me, have you?"

Castiel shook his head even though he knew it was too dark to see. "I'm hear to save you. I am an angel of the Lord."

A snort. "Funny."

"I do not lie."

"No, no. Not that." Suddenly, the man's grip tightened painfully on Castiel's wrist. He gasped, startled by the strength, but the man kept tightening until the bone snapped with an audible _click_. Castiel cried out and dropped to his knees. He cradled the hand to his chest even as it healed, and could feel Dean Winchester crouch down to speak. "Its funny cause you hurt just like everyone else."

Castiel's gaze shot up when suddenly Dean lit another match. He had a rugged, strong countenance but that's not what made Castiel's heart drop through the floor. _I'm too late._

His eyes were entirely black but for thin green rings that seemed to glow with their own inner light. Dean smirked. "Let's play."

Castiel didn't remember how long he was stuck in that dark room with Dean Winchester, those matches, and a variety of sharp tools that the man seemed to have constant access too. He was too weak from the journey down to do much more than scream.

"If you're an angel, where are your wings?" Dean taunted once as he flipped a scalpel from hand to hand. Castiel was stuck to a wall by something he couldn't see and was already sporting his daily dozen slices across his chest. He tried to speak, but couldn't. That's right. He'd cut his throat.

He'd have bled out and died if this wasn't Hell, and the wounds healed a few hours after they were made.

Castiel asked him every day.

"Why?" he croaked. "Can you tell me why you're doing this?"

Dean would shrug and twist a knife into Castiel's shoulder. "Because I can." But after Castiel asked, he was always a bit subdued.

That was his response over and over and over.

Asking became Castiel's mantra of sorts. Someday, Dean would have a different answer. That was all he could hope for.

Castiel had no idea how much time passed when it finally happened.

"Why are you doing this?"

He waited for the answering sharp pain somewhere on his body, but instead, only silence met his words. He forced his blood crusted eyes open and squinted at Dean. "Dean?"

The man looked at the knife in his hand. He frowned at it, almost confusedly. Finally his gaze crawled up his victim's form. "What is your name? You told me once, didn't you?"

Castiel had no idea if he had or not. "I am called Castiel."

Dean smirked. It was sad and tired. "Weird name."

Something that was dangerously close to hope sparked in Castiel's chest. "From my point of view, it is your name which is... weird. If you were an angel, you would be called Dekanos or Decanumel."

Dean hummed thoughtfully in response and his eyes glazed over in thought. "Dekanos… That's not bad." After a few moments, he inhaled shakily and looked down at his bloody knife again. "If I keep doing this, I'll never stop."

Castiel blinked. "You like this?"

"No." Dean studied his victims face, and was almost surprised by his own words. He repeated himself, more sure. "No. You're not a bad person. They used to give me bad people."

Castiel stared impassively. "I serve the Lord."

"Are you really an angel?"

"Yes."

"Show me your wings."

Before, any time Dean asked, it was to mock him, to taunt. Something was different now. Castiel did not know what changed, but he was grateful for it.

Castiel shifted in his chains. He stood up slightly, and his wounds itched as they healed. "They are not much of a sight right now."

Dean cocked his head. He dropped the knife, and it rattled on the floor.

"I won't hurt them. I promise."

Castiel considered this. There was no reason he should believe him. In other circumstances, it would not even be possible to physically manifest his wings without killing everything in a two mile radius.

Dean sat down on the floor in front of Castiel with a blank look, and then Castiel noticed it. The black in his eyes had receded. Not entirely, but enough.

Castiel made his decision before he could reason himself out of it.

Something shifted in the air, and a soft flutter sounded. Dean, who had apparently not thought he would do it, looked up in shock.

Castiel's beaten, broken, and bloody wings were a soft black that rippled with blue when the light hit them right. They were the wings of a foot soldier. Nothing special and horribly messy at the moment. But he had to prove to Dean who he was.

Slowly, Dean stood. Awed, he reached a hand toward the appendage, and Castiel flinched back reflexively, which only sent shots of pain down his spine. Inwardly, he scolded himself for the very obvious sign of fear.

Dean froze and carefully stepped back. "You really are an angel."

Castiel nodded.

Dean's jaw tightened. His face filled with disgust, and it took a moment for Castiel to realize it was directed inward. The black in Dean's eyes fled completely now, and the man's brilliant green eyes were a storm of emotions far too human for Castiel to begin to unwind. Dean's shoulders slumped and his hands trembled when he brought them up to cover his mouth. "Oh God, what am I doing?"

Dean hesitated, and then darted forward. Castiel stiffened in anticipation of pain, but relaxed when he saw what Dean was doing. Dean undid the shackles holding Castiel and stepped back quickly. "Go." His voice was raw, and it was clear he was having difficulty speaking past his emotions. "Get out of here before they realize."

Castiel rubbed his wrists. His knees wobbled but his resolution had just received a shot of adrenaline. He shook his head. "I'm taking you with me, Dean Winchester. I came here to save you."

Dean barked out a harsh laugh. "Where are you gonna take me, huh? I'm _dead_. And somehow I really don't think Heaven is gonna-"

"You're not going to Heaven."

"There's only two options. Did you miss the part where I became a dog toy?"

Castiel sighed in exasperation. "Please, Dean Winchester. Trust me."

Something in the shadows far off rumbled, and Dean went white. He cast Castiel a panicked look. "You need to leave now."

"Come with me." Castiel took a step toward Dean as the thunder came closer. "You do not belong here."

Dean raised his eyebrow and gestured at Castiel's bloody clothes with disgust. "Don't I?"

Castiel wasn't sure how to respond. How could he explain that he did not blame Dean for what he had done? How could he convincingly say he forgave him, when at the same time, he could not stop his heart from picking up pace the closer he made himself move toward the man. Fear wanted to clog up his throat, and Castiel had to force it down. He forgave Dean. Now he just needed to tell the rest of himself to.

The thunder was nearly deafening now. Wind picked up, and Castiel could feel it picking through his feathers. He forced his wings tight to his back, well aware he did not have the strength to un-manifest them (if that is a term). He watched Dean pleadingly. He could not save the man unless he wanted to be saved.

Just as the storm reached a peak, it stopped all at once.

Castiel met Dean's terrified gaze. "They're coming for me," Dean whispered. "Again. Cause I stopped."

Castiel extended his hand and waited, silently praying. If Dean refused to come, there would be no point. None. Castiel would have failed at his greatest mission. It was too late to save the Seal. But he could still save the man who broke it.

"Please, Dean," he croaked. "Please let me help you."

Something flickered across Dean's face. Sadness. "It's impossible, Castiel."

A small smile tugged his lips. "Nothing is really impossible."

Dean tightened and loosened his fists. Finally he exhaled. "Screw it, it's not like anything worse could happen to me." With a finally grimace, he took Castiel's hand."

Instant relief like cool water washed through Castiel. "Thank you."

Years later, Castiel could only hope Dean would tell him where he was so he could come and work it out again. "Please Dean, let me fix this."

"You shouldn't have to fix-"

Castiel growled to himself. " _Now_ , Dean."

There was a long pause over the phone followed by a mumbled address. Castiel nodded, hung up, and extended his wings. A moment later, he appeared in a sleazy hotel room on the south side of Indiana. Dean was on the floor at the base of a purple and green polka dotted bed. Sam was nowhere to be found. The cell phone dangled from his fingers, and his gaze flicked up to meet Castiel's the moment he materialized.

Dean's jaw tightened. "Hey, buddy."

"Dean."

Dean shivered and something changed in his eyes. There was a darkness there that should not be. "Tell me," he whispered. "Tell me I didn't do those things to you."

Castiel crouched in front of his friend, cocked his head, and hesitated, which was an answer in of itself. Dean cursed and dropped his head back, and Castiel tried to quell the concern in his chest. "It's alright, Dean. You were not yourself."

Dean shook his head. "No, I was. I remember now. It's- it's _pounding_ in my head." He opened his mouth to say more, eyes wide and terrified and just a bit insane. These memories would ruin him.

Before he could speak, Castiel's hand shot forward, and he tapped him lightly on the forehead. Instantly, Dean slumped unconscious. Cas breathed a sigh of relief.

It had been so long since he had to do this…

Castiel searched through his mind for the rotten memories and buried them once more. As deep as he could. It was not a permanent solution. It never was.

He picked him up and laid his friend on the bed, before sitting down himself in a chair. He watched Dean's chest rise and fall evenly.

A few minutes later, Dean shifted and his eyes opened. He yawned and then startled back when he saw Castiel sitting calmly a few feet away. He rolled his eyes irritably.

"Sheesh, Cas. How many times do I have to tell you? It's just plain creepy to watch people while they sleep."

"My apologies." A small smile tugged the angel's lips. Protect Dean Winchester. That was his mantra now. Even from it meant protecting him from himself.


End file.
